You Don't Own Me 2 (The Russian Don 2)

I decide to go and have a drink at the Matrix.

Not since Dahlia was ripped away from me have I been there. I enter the club and look around. Nothing has changed. I walk to my usual table and sit. A waitress comes to ask what I want to drink. She must be new. I haven’t seen her before. I order a large vodka.

‘And bring the bottle,’ I tell her.

‘Yes, Sir,’ she says.

She brings a full bottle and a large vodka on a tray. ‘Will there be anything else, Sir?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ I say, picking up the glass and raising it to my lips.

She slips away, and I drink. More than half the bottle is gone when a woman’s voice asks, ‘Zane?’

I lift my head. A woman with curly blonde hair and a tight short dress is standing in front of me with her head tilted and her eyebrows raised. I frown at her. She looks familiar. Yup, I think I remember her. We met through a mutual acquaintance at a Casino. She is Swedish or Norwegian.

She smiles. ‘Remember me?’ she prompts.

‘Vaguely,’ I say.

‘I’m Abbie, a friend of Zio Tito. We met in Monte Carlo, last year?’

I nod.

‘Are you alone?’

I spread my hand out and let it flop down.

She laughs. Low and sexy. Yes, I remember that. Abbie, the consummate flirt. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

I gesture to the space next to me and she takes a seat, gracefully aligning her body so her smooth legs are ever so slightly apart and slanted towards me. She has the kind of golden skin that only true Nordics can have.

‘So what’s Zio Tito up to these days?’ I ask.

She pulls a face. ‘Doing time in Italy.’

I smile dryly. Of course he is. ‘What’s he in for?’

‘Some kind of ticket touting online racket.’

Truth is, that is the fate of most criminals. In and out of prison.

The waitress comes and Abbie orders a White Russian. I didn’t expect it to hurt that much, but I feel it like a stab in my gut. That’s Dahlia’s drink. What the fuck am I doing here? We sat here. Right here on this very seat. A deep painful breath shudders through me.

She immediately puts her hand on my thigh. ‘Are you OK?’

The shock of having another human being touch me makes me instantly look at her hand. For a second my intoxicated mind believes it is Dahlia’s sweet hand. It is the thigh scratch. My confused gaze flies up to the face that goes with the hand. And there it is: the invitation to fuck. As clear as daylight.

Do I want to fuck?

Yes.

It must have shown in my face because she moves closer. Her perfume hits me, foreign and thick, and suddenly I am nauseated. Sick to my stomach. I stand up unsteadily. I want to fuck, but not you. I want my Dahlia.

She stands too. ‘Are you all right?’

I wave my hand at her. ‘I’m fine.’

I weave through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. I don’t belong here. I need to get back. I need to keep watch. She may open her eyes and not find me there. I need to get back. I reach the door, and Noah grabs my shoulder.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get you home.’

I look into his eyes. ‘Yeah, take me home.’

I slump at the back of the Merc with my hands over my eyes. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. I can’t go on like this. Something’s got to give. The car lurches, and my head hits the side of the door.

God, I’m such a fucking mess.

The car stops and I stumble out. Noah tries to help me but I push him away. Yuri has the front door open and I sway past him. I go down the corridor and open the door to her room. The nurse is reading a book by the lamp. When she sees me, she immediately puts the book down and stands up.

‘Go now,’ I tell her harshly.

Quietly, she goes past me. I take a few steps into the room and look at my little fish lying on her bed. Fuck, it never fails to amaze me how perfectly still she sleeps. Even if I watch her for hours she will never move a muscle, and yet I know she is in there. I walk up to her still body. I am glad for the silence. I used to hate the eerie rasp of the ventilator. I love watching her breathing. It means she is alive. I touch her face.

‘Wake up, little fish. Please. Wake up.’

She doesn’t open her eyes. Something tears inside me. I gently push the blanket covering her. She is dressed in a soft loose cotton shirt. I lift it up. She is wearing a diaper. Gently, I undo it. It is clean. The skin around the tops of her thighs is without redness or rashes. Good. The nurses have instructions to check her diaper and turn her once every hour to ensure she never gets bedsores.